


But on earth indifference is the least

by middlemarch



Category: Poldark (TV 2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Critique, F/M, Poetry, Sonnets, Vignette, creative writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-21 23:44:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10685346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch
Summary: She wouldn't have worn a black cashmere turtleneck if she'd had one. But it wasn't a dilemma she had to face.





	But on earth indifference is the least

**Author's Note:**

> Another modern AU transposition, for everyone who loves Poldark and anyone who's ever been in a creative writing class. The title is from W.H. Auden.

“You all know I picked you for this group based on the group of ten poems you submitted and I am just going to say, for the record, you all have talent. Or something that highly resembles it. Ten poems’s not all that much to go by,” Agatha announced surveying them with a dry regard Demelza found obscurely soothing. 

They were sitting in the small circle that was de rigeur for any creative writing seminar, at least in Demelza’s limited experience, and she wondered again how she’d made it in to the class that was pompously titled “Poets’ Atelier: Agatha Trenwith.” Elizabeth Chynoweth had been featured in every issue of the university literary journal and Demelza knew from overhearing him at the few parties they’d attended together that George Warleggan had won an online chapbook contest, by the unpreposessing Oppossum Press, but still. Still. She almost hadn’t applied but Verity, her roommate and friend and relentless cheerleader had convinced her to; it had taken a whole bottle of cheap white wine to get the courage to hit the submit button, but she’d gotten the acceptance email and found herself in the seminar room that was supposed to encourage “art” because it had big windows along one white wall, stripped oak floorboards and some wooden chairs Demelza was sure people in the 50s would have happily thrown out as crap. The view from the room was unimpressive, neighboring buildings not old enough to have any interesting period touches, not new enough to inspire any musing on the contrast between concrete and sky. Still, she looked out the windows because it was less risky than getting caught staring at the other members of the class-- Francis doodling in the expensive notebook with a fountain pen, Elizabeth nodding along to Agatha, gorgeously brooding Ross in the black leather jacket that should have been a pathetic cliché but which was startlingly, desperately not.

“I’m sure you agonized over which poems to pick. For the next session, I want you to bring the one you didn’t include-- I want to see what you reject, what you think isn’t good enough. What won’t make the right impression. That’s the one we’ll talk about,” Agatha said, smiling at them. She looked like an eagle or a falcon, there was something raptor-ish about her face, the carnal gleam in her eyes, and yet her tone had been almost affectionate. Perhaps that was what power did for a person or genius, Demelza thought, allowed such unapologetic discrepancies. She fiddled with the hem of her second-hand woolly cardigan and considered the poem she’d have to share. For though she had a journal-full of lyrics and verse she hadn’t chosen, she’d known as soon as Agatha had spoken which poem was meant to be examined.

“And Ross, darling, not another sonnet,” Agatha added as they were all standing up, picking up leather satchels and messenger bags, shoving phones into pockets, tucking in an ear-bud in preparation for a solitary walk down the busy city street. Ross flushed and George laughed, a vile, scraping sort of sound infused with his self-satisfaction.

“George, if only I had the same request to make of you! You _might_ acquaint yourself with an iamb,” Agatha said sharply, rising higher in Demelza’s estimation with the remark than for her many well-received books, her awards, even the second-to-last poem in her last collection that Demelza had memorized as soon as she read it. She felt more comfortable with the prospect of sharing the poem she’d set aside. She found herself wondering what Agatha would say, how Ross’s expression would change and if she’d be brave enough to look.


End file.
